


Wager

by Mireille



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drug Use, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-09
Updated: 2005-09-09
Packaged: 2019-03-12 01:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13536321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mireille/pseuds/Mireille
Summary: Oliver loses a bet.





	Wager

**Author's Note:**

> Despite my vows that I was never writing this pairing again, I couldn't say no when it was for a good cause. This was written for a charity donation, and the requester wanted Flint/Wood, dubious consent or non-con, and the "losing a bet and reluctantly paying up" scenario. That is what they got. 
> 
> It may help if you've read _Quidditch Through the Ages_ , or at least if you know that the Chudley Cannons are not a very good Quidditch team.
> 
> It's not the least pleasant thing I've ever written, not by a long shot, but it isn't very nice.

They aren't supposed to bet on their own games, or on any changes to their team rosters. They aren't supposed to bet on professional Quidditch at all, and certainly not for sums far beyond the salary of a reserve-side player. 

They aren't supposed to make bets they can't pay off, and if they did, they ought to confess it to their team captain and their coaches, and accept the fines and suspension that would be meant to teach them to control their gambling habits. 

They definitely aren't supposed to meet in an inn in Seville, where no one recognizes the reserve Keeper from Puddlemere and the Falcons' newest first-string Chaser, to discuss the terms of their latest bet, the one that has gotten just a bit out of hand. 

Oliver toys with his drink, running his finger along the rim of his glass. "A hundred thousand Galleons," he says, finally. 

Flint smirks, draining his glass. The wine is cheap here, and good enough for their tastes; they're not exactly connoisseurs. "That was the bet," he says. 

"I don't have it," Oliver confesses, rather unnecessarily. No one has that kind of money. The Malfoys, maybe. Not a twenty-year-old reserve Keeper with two NEWTs to his name. 

"You should have thought of that earlier."

"I was _thirteen_ when we made that bet, Flint!" he protests. All the rest of their wagers have been well within what he can afford to lose, but this one had been made boastfully, back when a hundred Galleons and a hundred thousand seemed nearly the same thing to him. "We were kids showing off. It wasn't a serious wager."

"Wasn't it?" Flint smirks again, twisting his features into something even uglier than normal.

"I wasn't serious!"

"Pity," Flint drawls. "I was. First one to make a first-string side wins a hundred thousand Galleons. And I was first."

"Because you cheated," Oliver argues. He's a better player than Flint, and Falmouth has _three_ reserve Chasers, after all. But the first reserve isn't expected to be released from St. Mungo's until well after the season ends, and the second had just announced her resignation from professional Quidditch in a cloud of rumors and scandal, just after one of the first-side Chasers had announced his retirement. Oliver knew Marcus Flint too well to believe it was all just coincidence. 

"Prove it." Flint leans back in his chair, grinning. 

"Flint, I don't have a hundred thousand Galleons. I don't have a _thousand_ Galleons."

Flint sighs. "That's a shame, Wood. What's your captain going to say when he finds out about this? You'll be off the side, for sure."

He can't lose Quidditch. It's the only thing he has, the only thing he really cares about. "Flint-- _Marcus_ \--please don't do this."

"Why shouldn't I?" Something dark glitters in his eyes, and Oliver looks down at his wine glass again. 

"I'll do anything," he says. "Name your price."

Flint laughs. "I named my price. A hundred thousand."

"I don't have it!" he pleads. "Anything, Flint."

Suddenly, Flint grins at him. "I think I could be persuaded to be...merciful," he says, after a moment, and Oliver breathes again. 

"What do you want?" he asks, expecting to be asked to throw the next match he gets to play in. It'll sicken him, but he knows he can get away with it, and it's better than being banned from Quidditch for the rest of his life. 

Flint gets to his feet, throwing a few Sickles on the table for their waitress. "I have a room upstairs."

Oliver sits there for a moment, not understanding what Flint means, and then frowns as he catches on. "You aren't serious."

"If you're saying your arse isn't worth that much...." He shrugs. "Suit yourself. I'll be just as happy with the money."

Oliver stands up, grabbing the wine bottle and gulping the last few swallows. "You're on," he says. 

Flint leads the way up to his room, which, despite being a hotel room, is no more Spartan than Oliver's own bedroom and a good deal cleaner. He sits down on the bed, looking up at Oliver with a triumphant grin. "Strip," he orders. "And try to make it worth watching."

Oliver starts to peel off his clothes; Flint leans back, his hand slipping under the waistband of his trousers. Oliver doesn't know how to put on a show for Flint, but Flint doesn't complain about his efforts, just watches him through half-lidded eyes. 

Entirely too son, Oliver's naked, and Flint's grinning at him. It's a hungry grin, and Oliver thinks of wolves. 

Flint stands up, stripping off his own clothing. He looks even more massive without the robes; as he pulls off his shirt, he reveals corded muscle standing out under tanned skin. When the trousers come off, Oliver tries not to look at Flint's cock, which is thick and already hard, flat against Flint's belly. Oliver doesn't think he'll ever be hard again, not after today. 

Flint shoves him toward the bed, and Oliver lets himself be pushed, collapsing on the mattress while Flint takes out a jar from the bedside table. The smell when Flint unscrews the lid reminds Oliver of Potions classes; it's sharp and herbal, although Oliver doesn't really care; he just hopes it's going to do the job. 

He finds out soon enough, as Flint pulls him up onto his knees--Oliver isn't small, but Flint handles him as though he weighs next to nothing--and pushes two massive fingers inside him. Oliver bites his lip, tasting blood and trying not to give Flint the satisfaction of hearing his cries of pain. 

There's something in the salve Flint's using, he realizes, as Flint's fingers twist painfully inside him, and he feels his cock beginning to stiffen. He's either sickened or grateful, and he doesn't have the chance to work out which, because Flint roughly pulls his fingers out of Oliver. Oliver only has a moment to register the feeling of Flint's cock pressing against him before Flint thrusts in.

Oliver thinks all the oxygen is being pushed out of his lungs; he chokes and gasps and struggles to get his breath even while he's being impaled on Flint's cock. The pain recedes after a little while--he thinks there's something for _that_ in the salve, as well--and he gulps in air. 

Whatever drug Flint's used on him is taking effect in earnest now, and Oliver's own cock is hard and leaking. He tries to move, desperate for something to ease the already painful arousal. One of Flint's huge hands grabs at his hip, holding him still, but the other reaches around to squeeze him, jerking him off mercilessly in time with his thrusts deep inside Oliver. It doesn't matter how much Oliver hates this; he's never needed to come so desperately in his life. The fingers wrapped tightly around the base of his cock prevent that, though, and all he can do is let Flint fuck him, while he moans and begs and tries helplessly to get enough friction against his cock to get him off. 

Flint comes with a guttural cry, pulling out of Oliver and rolling over to lie on the bed. His hand still works Oliver's cock, and when Oliver finally comes, there's very little pleasure mixed with the pain. He collapses on the bed--trembling with exhaustion, skin sticky with sweat and semen--and he lies there, waiting for Flint to throw him out. Carry him out, possibly, because he's not sure he's going to be able to move. 

He can place one of the scents in the salve now, though--not Potions class, but Madam Pomfrey's dispensary--and he realizes that the worst of the damage Flint has done to him is already healing. He's drained, but he'll be all right within a few hours. 

It might be a few seconds or a few hours before Flint speaks. "League Cup," he says, and the words float through Oliver's mind for a moment before they resolve themselves into something that makes sense. "Name your team."

"How much?" Oliver says. 

"Hundred thousand? Give you a chance to get some of your own back. You know I won't be able to pay up."

Oliver nods. "It's a bet."

"Name your team," Flint repeats. 

"Cannons," Oliver says, relishing the look of shock on Flint's face.

**Author's Note:**

> [me on tumblr](https://mireille719.tumblr.com)


End file.
